


branches of sorrow, the colour of green

by statxesqxe



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boys In Love, F/M, Falling In Love, Introspection, Lowercase, M/M, Mutual Pining, My First AO3 Post, Pre-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tom is a Sweetheart, War, Will is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statxesqxe/pseuds/statxesqxe
Summary: there isn't much left of william schofield after the somme.or,thomas blake becomes a priest instead.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield, William Schofield/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	1. holding on to a dream

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone!  
> this is my first ao3 post and I'm actually quite excited (and terrified).  
> this story will most likely have about 5 or 6 chapters and is mostly written already, so don't worry about me abandoning this lol

> Never such innocence,  
> Never before or since,  
> As changed itself to past  
> Without a word - the men  
> Leaving the gardens tidy,  
> The thousands of marriages  
> Lasting a little while longer:  
> Never such innocence again.  
>  **-MCMXIV, by Philip Larkin**

at first, it doesn't seem real.  
he is running, thousands of men beside him, explosions and gunfire accompanying their advance like the ghostly memories of home.  
next, he is lying in the mud of no-man's land, choking on the dirt and grime and blood and let's hot, searing pain eat up his body.  
finally, his screams get drowned out by the sound of death swallowing the battlefield whole.

***

the hospital is silent and reeks of death.  
a void, filled only by the feverish whispers of the infected or prayers falling from half-delusional lips.  
schofield hates it more than he had ever hated the trenches.  
here, they lie and hope and pray to a god bound to forsake humanity, and do not dare to speak of death even though it is an ever-growing presence haunting their lives.  
floor after floor is filled with beds arranged like white, pristine gravestones.  
everyday schofield watches the nurses cart out another bed with another body gone cold.  
and no one comes to visit him.  
finally, after two weeks, a letter arrives.  
he reads that they will ship him back to england, that they'll give him time to heal.  
that he served his country courageously.  
england.  
home.  
the word makes him feel sick to his stomach. it tastes like copper on his tongue and makes his eyes water in a way that he hopes is mistakable for happiness, gratitude, not this wretched feeling of disgust curdling deep inside of him.  
home.  
the thought makes him wish the bullet lodged inside his arm would've hit the mark.

***

home, to him, is london.  
city raised from charred earth, industrialized and never sleeping, a countdown ticking ever closer to their doom.  
crowded, yet empty.  
he does not return there.  
he longs for a simpler place, where his lungs of smog and dust could heal, where hands charred by dirt and blood would finally come to rest.  
he longs for peace.  
quiet.  
a heavy blanket of stillness that could finally suffocate the ringing in his ears.  
he steps of the ferry in dover and all but crumbles in the arms of his wife.  
and it is then that he realizes he can never go back, can never be a soldier again.  
his masquerade slips away as the rain washes the last remnants of blood out from under his nails, it cracks when his wife finally asks why he never wrote.  
he wishes he could explain.  
wishes he could tell her that he could not bear to hear of roses blooming in gardens far out of reach when he had watch a different red seep into the ground each night.  
wishes he could tell her that kindness was the cruelest weapon for a bleeding heart.  
wishes he could make her understand that the thought of home was a poisonous thing if death was your closest friend.  
all the words lay heavy on his tongue, yet he manages nothing but a wrecking sob.  
she nods, understanding.  
he wishes she wouldn't be.  
and they leave.  
"to the countryside", she says, "you'll love it, i'm sure."  
they don't speak of how he clings to her in desperation but doesn't dare meet her eye.  
and in the distance blooms an orchard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this gets better I swear 
> 
> title taken from "colour green" by new politics, the full line goes: 
> 
> Rose petals on an empty bed  
> You're holding on to a teenage dream  
> Dancing in a wedding dress but it is only in your mind


	2. where I does not exist

"william", she calls him, "william, come downstairs, would you?"  
he doesn't react, at first.  
doesn't realise she is calling for him.  
eventually he remembers: he is william here, not schofield. schofield had died at the somme. at least, he wishes he did. a part of him still smells smoke and blood and rotting flesh in the brisk air, a part of him still sees ghostly images of death, lurking just out of sight.  
a part of him reels at the comforting familiarity of his name.  
"william?"  
he thinks that maybe he was wrong.  
he thinks that william had died somehow, quietly, had begun fading the second he had put on his uniform for the first time.  
and that instead schofield had returned from the war, all rough hands and sickening obedience and william, loving husband, had died in the trenches, somewhere.  
one of millions.  
and the irony doesn't escape him: in the middle of the fighting and bleeding and dying he had been so focused on surviving that only at home, in the precariously crafted safety, would he come to realise that he'd died long ago.  
he wishes he could cry.  
his wife enters the room suddenly, lines of worry etched into her soft features.  
"will?", she says, familiar voice twisted into an ugly, small thing.  
he doesn't respond.  
she sits down next to him, buries her face in his neck and weeps.  
he can't bring himself to comfort her.

***

she goes to mess every sunday.  
once, he would've gone with her.  
but now, divinity is no longer his to consider, not his to hold in fragile, shaking hands.  
his tongue feels dried out, and harsh words spill from his mouth like poised water; what once was holy is now nothing but dust and grime and the prayer stays lodged between his teeth, caged like an animal.  
he does not dare speak of holiness with a voice made hoarse by war.  
"are you coming?"  
she is dressed in her finest clothes, voice silken and soft, innocent and unbearable.  
he shakes his head.  
too tired.  
she nods, kisses him on the cheek.  
leaves.  
he fears the day a simple "no" won't cut it anymore.

***

it takes five weeks.  
"you need to go outside", she says, "it'll do you good."  
he opens his mouth, closes it again.  
"no"  
his voice is hoarse, rough from disuse. he hopes she can still sense his discomfort, fear, anxiety.  
she smiles, a pathetic little thing, and says: "you'll need to leave this room someday, will. come on, it'll only be two hours."  
he nods, empty.  
his sunday suit still sits where he left it, gathering dust. it doesn't fit him anymore.  
of course it doesn't, he wants to say, nothing from before fits him anymore. not his wife's hand in his.  
not even his name.  
they still go to mess, walking side by side down the gravel path up to the church.  
he doesn't take her hand.  
the church sits atop a hill like a hawk, overlooking the town with watchful, judging eyes.  
it is larger than most and casts a dark shadow over the few houses standing nearby, painfully reminiscent of planes roaring overhead, covering the sun.  
he doesn't dwell on it.  
it is dark inside, candlelight's shadow making of humans barely recognizable shapes, faces twisted beyond recognition. he wonders what he looks like, face half covered by shadow and eyes alight with animalistic fear, and silently hopes they cannot recognize him.  
for his wife's dignity.  
the candles flicker, and he sees flares in the sky; the skeleton of a town burning brightly against a backdrop of black, black sky.  
he refuses to dwell on it.  
they sit at the front like they would've done before, and the aching familiarity makes him feel repulsive.  
like he's not supposed to experience this intimacy.  
this familiarity.  
he is not william, after all, he is schofield.  
a murderer sitting where there was supposed to be an innocent man.  
an imposter, a liar, dirty and reeking of death no matter how long he bathed, how much he scrubbed.  
he hates it.  
suddenly, the church becomes alight with sound; a chorus of voices sing heavenly praise over the sound of an organ, echoing through his brain.  
the sounds lodge themselves into his ribcage, reverberate close to his heart.  
he takes a shuddering breath.  
opens his mouth.  
his voice comes out crooked and wrong, praise turned to despair by war and death.  
he thinks about metal screeching under blazing sunlight and screams cut short by mud.  
he thinks about rifles firing and orders barked at him, about explosions and debris hitting his face.  
he thinks about hell, in a place closer to heaven than any other.  
when the church goes quiet, his wife has to remind him to sit down.  
so he sits, stares at the coloured windows, hands folded in prayer, and wishes the red stained glass would remind him of roses or lipstick, not red hot blood sputtering from dying lips.  
the rest of mess passes in a haze.  
and when he finally feels like he has gained consciousness again, he is staring into an ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I say the chapters get longer? did I?
> 
> chapter title taken from Pablo Neruda, Sonett XVII . The full line goes like this:  
> Where I does not exist, nor you,  
> so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,  
> so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


	3. life, untouched

he blinks.  
once, twice.  
he is standing.  
standing?   
oh, right.   
his wife had beckoned him to stand up, had introduced him to neighbours and friends like someone would show around their new pet.  
their faces started to blend together, after some time.  
he thinks it may be just habit; too often had he seen a dead man pass him on to street to still pay attention to faces.  
yet, he finds himself staring into blue.  
"will, this is our new reverend!", his wife smiles, adoration grounding her shaky voice once more.  
the reverend smiles, and blue, blue eyes take in his form.  
"blake", he says, and then, "but you can call me thomas"  
and the youthfulness in his features is unbearable.  
his stomach turns.  
"schofield", he says and hopes it is enough.  
his wife's smile drops, shatters on the ground like an expensive vase.  
"you can call him will", she says and squeezes his arm, "right?"  
("will", he says, "will please"  
but the bullet hits him anyway,  
splits him open until all he is has bleed into the ground.)  
he says nothing.  
knows it is not enough, but can't bring himself to speak again.  
his wife drags him out of the church, but it's long, dark shadows haunt him long after it is out of sight.

***

a few days after, someone knocks at their door.  
"sorry", blake says, "i know you're probably busy but, could you maybe help me and my mom down in the orchard?"  
he blinks.  
once, twice.  
blake doesn't disappear.  
"maybe", he thinks, "please".  
how long had it been since someone had asked him to please help?  
orchard?  
he thinks of cherry petals floating down rivers.  
thinks of bloated bodies drifting face down in shallow waters.  
and he nods.  
blake beams, and his stomach churns.  
he looks so young.  
"great!", he says, "come along then!"  
and just like that, blake grabs his wrist and leads him away from safety, into the great unknown.

***

the orchard stands in full bloom and white petals cover the ground like snow.  
blake hums a song as he picks the cherries from the trees and throws them in the little basket in schofield's hands.  
he watches blake climb tree after tree with ease and thinks of the young recruits and how their blood looked just as brilliantly red as the cherries in his hands.  
thinks about how they'd crawl through the barbed wire with ease, like blake weaving through leaves and branches with laughter on his lips.  
god, he is so young.  
and the ocean in blake's eyes sparkles brightly in the midday sun.  
he thinks of steel glinting under a merciless sun, then, of blood reflecting fire and lifeless eyes staring up to cloudless skies and all beauty vanishes from eyes blue like a calm ocean.  
good.  
something hits his face, then, and he jumps, grabs for his rifle and-  
"oops!", blake laughs, like little bells ringing, and smiles at him with an aching kindness.  
something in him breaks.  
kindness, in war, was nothing but weakness; a pathetic substitute for strength or wit.  
and yet, blake offered it to him with no more hesistance than his name.  
and the youthfulness in blake's features hurts to look at.  
"you're a terrible shot", schofield says and marvels at how easy the words roll of his tongue.  
"oh really? i think i hit the mark, actually!", he grins and just for a second, schofield thinks of nothing else.

***

evening comes and the sky bleeds red to blue, like lips gone slack after death.  
they sit under one of the many cherry trees and watch the sun bleed crimson over mountains in the distance.  
"thank you again", blake says, "normally my brother would help, but..."   
oh.  
"where?", he asks.  
"france", blake answers, and a sadness too profound for someone so young twists his face into a grimace.  
"oh", schofield breathes.  
thinks of blood staining young faces and of blue eyes, like a calm ocean, dull and dead.  
"your wife said..."   
"i was in france too", and the words feel like a confession.  
"where?"  
"thiepval. the somme."  
and blake looks at him, truly looks, eyes blue and full of sorrow and compassion and pulls him impossibly closer.  
his lips form a perfect circle.  
"i'm sorry."   
and schofield nods.

***

blake falls asleep, eventually.  
without the lines of worry on his face, he looks incredibly young.  
it is in the way his dark curls frame his face, hides behind the crease of his brow and the redness of his lips, resides in the roundness of his face and softness of his skin.  
yet his hands are stained with the red of a dying day.  
it looks as of he'd touched the sky, schofield thinks, as if his soft hands had painted the sunset over the mountains.  
sitting next to blake feels strange.  
it is serene.  
peaceful.  
a reminder of how things had been before the sound of artillery wouldn't leave his head and ghosts walked among the living in cruel harmony.  
a memory of life, untouched.  
he watches blake's chest rise and fall.  
there is comfort in that, strangely.  
knowing the boy is safe.  
knowing that innocence still exists, hidden by orchards and golden crosses.  
knowing that life goes on, after.  
but the horizon remains a messy red and schofield knows that somewhere, the war rages on, concealed by dark curls and white cherry blossoms covering the ground like snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized the timeline of this thing makes no sense at all;;;   
> The battle of the somme officially ended on November 18th so let's just pretend Scho somehow got shot earlier so that he can still be there while the cherry trees bloom lol  
> Also, his wife comes of much more evil than I wanted her too T-T 
> 
> As always, all kudos and comments are appreciated!


	4. resurrection, life and light

the hardest part is returning to his wife, after.  
blake walks him home in silent companionship.  
yet when he knocks at the door it feels like kneeling down in the mud of a trench, waiting to be shelled by the enemy.  
it feels like shooting a man in the head and realizing what you've done just seconds later.  
she smiles at him and the white of her teeth look like bones of a human blown to bits.

  
"reverend", her voice tastes of honey, yet falls heavy from her lips like droplets of blood, "i already wondered where will had gone."

  
"had to borrow him for some work down in the orchard, sorry."  
blake smiles and the moonlight shining through his hair like coloured glass sets a crown atop his head.

  
"no worries, right, will?", she chirps.

  
he wishes the ringing in his ears could drown out her voice.  
and he only manages a nod.  
he has left his words beneath a cherry tree, watching the sun bleed out over the horizon.  
when she grabs his hands he thinks of hands stained red with the blood of dying men.  
when she kisses him he thinks of blake and wonders what that might mean.  
if it means anything at all.  
he's sure it doesn't.

***

they go to church the next sunday and the one after as well.  
now that he knows blake tuning out the sermon seems just as blasphemous as burying his silver cross in the muddy earth of france.  
so he listens.  
soaks up blake's words until they drown him and he chokes on blood and dirt and guilt again.  
listens until there is nothing left of william or schofield, until there is only him and blake's voice echoing in his brain.  
he is nothing.  
and blake, standing at the altar, shining as brilliantly as the stained glass, is everything.  
he is dirty, guilty, a sinner.  
blake is pure, innocent, nothing but a child.  
and the silence of the church screams louder than the ghostly screeching of metal haunting his dreams.  
he feels clean, for just a second.  
his wife grabs his hand.  
and reality returns in an instant.  
he is schofield, after all.  
survivor of the somme.  
a soldier, not a man belonging in a church.  
yet he still wonders why salvation only comes to him through blake and his words, golden and precious more than any jewel.  
he wonders why he catches himself thinking of nothing when blake speaks.  
and somewhere inbetween he wishes death would finally find him.

***

"you don't seem happy", blake suddenly says.  
schofield thinks it's a much too heavy thing for anyone to say, just like that.

  
but he answers anyway.  
"i don't know"

  
and truly, he doesn't.  
this isn't the somme, yes.  
but everytime he looks at blake he thinks of crimson rivers picking their way through dirt and grime and blue eyes going grey and men crying for their mothers.  
blake looks at him with such profound sadness then that he almost wishes the words would've died in his throat.

  
"why?", he says, "you're home, aren't you?"

  
he looks at blake and can't begin to explain that home is a fantasy, not unlike a faraway star and he can no more return to it than he can stop looking at the sunset and seeing red blood falling from dying lips.  
he doesn't answer.  
stares at the grass to his feet and wonders how it still grows.  
wonders if the war will ever end.  
wonders when he'll return it.  
blake inches closer to him.  
it's a silent attempt at comfort, he knows, and he wishes blake wouldn't be so kind.  
wishes he could push the other away.  
instead, he settles on memorizing the way blake looks, hair intertwined with golden sunlight and eyes an ever changing hue of blue, blue, blue.  
blake rests his head atop his shoulder.  
and they watch the sunset.

***

they go the orchard a lot, nowadays.  
he tells his wife that he is helping with the harvest.  
the truth is, he doesn't dare put what he and blake have (and what they are doing) into words - to afraid it might shatter or fade into nothingness like words drifting away with the wind.  
to afraid of his wife's eyes silent judgments burning into his soul.  
sometimes, he wishes she knew.  
sometimes, he wishes he was back at the somme.  
and sometimes, when blake laughs at something he'd said, he wishes to be nowhere else at all.  
so they sit under the cherry trees.  
they sit until the night drains the earth of colour and warmth and blake's incessant chatter fades into solemn silence.  
they sit as the day slowly crumbles away beneath their fingertips, not unlike an old photo in a tobacco tin.  
and they keep on sitting until the blood of the sun's death has been washed away by hues of blue on the horizon.  
but the silence, like all things precious in this war, soon finds its end.

  
"i thought of a nickname, you know", blake says casually, "for you." 

  
schofield blinks.  
breaths in and out.  
then, he nods.  
as if to say go on but not quite being able to articulate it.

  
"scho", blake's voice is soft and sweet as the smell of flowers in spring.

  
it simultaneously means nothing and everything at once.  
it is the death of a carefully constructed character, the inevitable demise of schofield, much more peaceful than he ever deserved.  
it is the birth of scho.  
he still sees fire in fog obscuring his view and thunder is still oddly reminiscent of bombs dropping from the skies.  
laughter is still just a memory of death's inevitability.  
and yet, there is hope in the setting sun and in cherry trees still blooming, despite all.  
there is the beginning of a smile forming on his lips and happiness seems tangible, finally.  
his ears still ring.  
his hands are still slick with blood.  
but scho and blake, that is something new.  
something to hold on to that is much more palpable than a memory of love long gone.

  
"tom", scho whispers, "tom."

  
i'll call you tom, he wants to say, but the words stay stuck in his mouth, like an unspoken promise.  
tom smiles at him anyways.  
and his smile is holier than silver crosses and prayers and stained glass windows.  
it is pure and golden and scho wishes it could be the last thing he'll see.  
he engrains it into his brain, keeps it tucked away in a tobacco tin close to his heart.  
and when he returns to his wife, he thinks of blake and his smile.  
he knows it must mean something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!!  
> this chapter here was kinda important to me, cause I wanted to get the point across that will, schofield and scho are not the same person! well, I mean obviously they are in a literal sense, but I thought that will is what his wife calls him, because that's who he was before the war. schofield is the soldier, the survivor. he never really returns home. and scho? you'll see ;) 
> 
> anyway I hope u enjoyed!!  
> every kudo and comment got me like :heart_eyes:
> 
> chapter title taken from Christ and the Soldier   
> by Siegfried Sassoon.  
> The full line goes like this:   
> "Can you put no trust in my known word that shrives each faithful head? Am I not resurrection, life and light?"


	5. when I hesitate to hold your hand, it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing

he sees the war everywhere, in everything.  
he sees burning in the steam of his cup, sees planes roaring across the sky in dark clouds and thunderstorms.  
in the night, he tastes it on his lips. it is in the air just before rain, it is the tangible heaviness coating the house.  
it resides in the hardness of his wife's eyes, glinting like gunmetal in oppressive sunlight.  
it lives in the suffocating cleanliness of their white walls, so endlessly different from those he knew, born from dirt and wood.  
it is every creak he hears in the night and every bloody sunrise in the morning.  
ceasefire exists solely when he is with blake.  
it is a scary realization, as much as he secretly expects it.  
because when he wakes up one morning and watches the light filter through the window, little square shapes on the cold bedroom floor, he realizes that his wife isn't what she used to be.  
he sees that her lips are chapped and that her hair is lighter, a little more grey. he sees that her fingernails are chipped and her face is older, less lively. he sees that the war has made her dull and grey.  
she isn't the woman he idealized, back when shells fell from the sky like embers, not quite.  
she is a remnant of the past as much as he is.  
he gets up, then, makes himself a tea and watches the sun rise through the kitchen window.  
and with a start, he realizes he does not love her anymore.  
the realization is entirely unremarkable in its quietness and not nearly as world shattering as he thinks it should be.  
it took him a few weeks to fall in love, and he can't help but wonder how long it took him to fall out of it.  
the answer, he knows, lies somewhere by a river running red with blood, somewhere inbetween cherries and blue eyes glistening with joy.  
in the end, it does not matter.  
because the letter arrives on a warm, sunny day and shatters all that's left of the fragile peace tom had built.  
they write that they need him back and that in a week, a ferry will be leaving for france.  
they expect him on it.

***

"when?", tom asks, eyes glistening dangerously with emotions barely contained.  
"in a week", scho says.  
tom barks out a humourless laugh.  
"a week. a bloody week."  
then, he finally closes the distance between them.  
and when they kiss, the world falls apart yet again.

***

"i love you, you know", tom says simply, words tumbling from his mouth carelessly.  
scho wants to hate him for it.  
wants to hate his careless recklessness, wants to hate his innocence and blissful ignorance of how wrong what they are doing is.  
annoyingly, he also wants to kiss him senseless.  
a week, he thinks and decides on kissing tom again.  
it’s hardly a brush of lips, as solid as a cloud sailing across the sky.  
he's about to die for england in a bloody trench somewhere in the french countryside, so it's nobody's business how he spends his last days.  
tom, unsurprisingly, tastes like cherries and sunlight and scho feels almost guilty, like he is tainting him somehow.  
like his chapped lips could drain the innocence from tom, could rob him of cherries and flowers and leave him with nothing but the taste of dirt and blood.  
he thinks he might've poisoned him already. 

***

"what do you wanna do, then?", tom asks suddenly.  
it is the one question scho cannot answer.  
"i dunno.", he says, "is there anything... you want to do?"   
"yes, actually!"   
tom grins, and for a second, the world is at peace.

***

that night, he packs his things.  
there isn't much he takes with him.  
a book, extra socks and a picture of a life long past.  
he stands in front of the house for a little while and feels ever insignificant, like a leaf carried by the wind, unable to control where it shall go.  
the house looks more alive without him, he realizes, and knows with sudden certainty that the mark he has left will fade.  
after a week, the smell of mud would be but a memory, and after a month his wife would look up to the blue skies and for the first time in forever and breathe.  
her wounds would heal.  
the grass where he had sat would stop resembling his shape.  
the cherry trees would stop blooming.  
and step by step, the village would forget a man by the name of william schofield had ever existed.  
 _tom would move on to, scho thinks, he'd look out over the orchard and see the setting sun and he would forget._  
when he turns his back and walks away, he knows he will never return.

***

tom's mother is an achingly kind woman that takes one good long look at scho and decides he needs to eat more.  
she serves him cherry pie and chatters on about tom and all the trouble he used to get himself in.  
"he turned himself 'round eventually though, didn't he?", and the look she throws tom is so full of warmth and love that scho almost feels like he is intruding.  
tom, through it all, manages to look only mildly embarrassed.

***

when they arrive on the coast, the sky and the ocean mesh into one, creating an endless expanse of blue.  
this is heaven, scho thinks, this must be it.  
salvation.  
tom is asleep on the car seat next to him, black curls spilling over his face and soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.  
when his eyes flutter open, their blue is the most brilliant thing scho has ever seen.  
scho watches tom run along the beach, listens to him shout in joy when he finds sea shells and tucks the memory somewhere close to his heart, where artillery shells and rifles couldn't hit.  
where war was nothing but a word tossed around by politicians and there was no expiration date for happiness.  
somewhere, where tom and him could be something.  
tom sits down next to him eventually and they watch the waves crash onto the beach, fighting savagely for every little strip of sand.  
the sun paints tom golden, a view not unlike a renaissance painting and scho feels himself overcome with the urge to say everything he had previously buried in silence.

"i love you", he wants to say, "i love you as every plant and every sun rise, as the ocean and the sky. i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. and when this world falls apart i will think of you, and i will be happy." 

instead, he says nothing.  
merely watches the sun dying on tom's face, red rays of light adorning his skin like freckles.  
tom turns to look at him eventually, blue eyes heavy with an almost tangible emotion.

"i love you."

in another universe, scho repeats the words. he screams them into the sky and the ocean and the void of the universe, until there is only one constant in this world: scho loves tom. and it is perfect.  
in reality, the words stay lodged in his throat until he chokes on them.  
there is nothing he can do, so he kisses tom again and prays the other understands.

***

tom falls asleep again on the way back.  
scho looks at his face, so entirely at peace, and thinks, _someday_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot to update today lol  
> Also I haven't written the last chapter and it's supposed to go up the day after tomorrow uh oh   
> anyway, I would kill for anyone who leaves a comment or a kudo y'all are the real mvps
> 
> chapter title is from This is the Nonsense of Love from Mindy Nettifee. The whole line goes like this:   
> Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password.  
> We love like spies, like bruised prize fighters,  
> like children building tree houses.
> 
> Our love is serious business.  
> One look from you and my spine  
> reincarnates as kite string.
> 
> When I hesitate to hold your hand,  
> it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing.


	6. i will never again dream of having the whole world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \---  
> i hate this chapter uwu

will schofield had never felt like he was enough.  
not when he had asked his wife for her hand in marriage, not when he'd gone to war and not when they gave him a medal for his bravery.  
he rolled the word on his tongue - _enough, enough, enough_ \- just to taste the sweetness in his mouth.  
and even though it had become a constant in his life, this pondering about _being enough_ , he felt as if it was set in stone that he would never be.  
 _enough_ remained a concept that had proven itself to be unachievable.  
that was, of course, until he met tom.  
with him, scho's silence was enough, because it allowed tom to speak where normally he'd be shunned. with him, scho's empty stares were enough, because tom would make it into a challenge to get him to smile.   
with tom, scho was enough.   
and although they may never live in a world where they could express this love freely; a world where they'd kiss in coffee shops and hold hands while walking down the street.  
a world where scho would come home one day and tom would smile and they'd be happy.  
although they may never live in that world, they had each other now, and that was enough.

***

but as everything, this time of shaky happiness would soon come to collapse under the weight of things too big, too all-encompassing for any of them to understand.  
there still was a war, after all, and scho had been chosen to fight.  
it is their last evening.

***

"you know, i've thought about this", tom murmurs into the swirling darkness, "and i've made a choice." 

"oh really?", scho says and watches his words float away into the night.

"yeah" 

"what's it, then?" 

"i'm coming with you." 

the words whistle through the darkness like a bomb and explode right inbetween them. for a little while, all scho can hear is the ringing in his ears. then, reality kicks back in.   
the world around him is alive with noise - a glorious symphony of explosions and screams.  
pain blossoms in his shoulder - when he looks down, he can see red flowers blooming from his uniform in little rivers.  
he doubles over, and mud soaks into his clothes. he inhales the stench of death with every breath he takes.  
and above him, the sky is painted flaring red.  
cherry trees are but a memory here, kindness a trait of those doomed to die.  
yet tom just keeps looking at him.  
 _blue eyes, like a calm ocean_ , he thinks, yet there is a struggle evident in the endless blue - a storm splitting the sea on harsh cliffs, all crashing noise and sharp droplets of water.

"you can't", scho says, "tom, you can't" 

the storm settles. a different calm takes its place. _defiance_. 

"yes i can", tom answers.

and then, with the sudden certainty the truth only rarely possesses, scho knows it's over.

***

the ocean before him is dark and the ferry silent.  
behind them lies the real world, with tidy gardens, playing children and blooming cherry trees.  
up ahead, the inferno of war - a haze of bullets and screams and pain.   
no one dares to look back.  
on the pier, women cry into their handkerchiefs; the scene oddly quiet for all the heartbreak it is sure to contain.  
tom stand next to scho's wife, eyes alight with a defiance too animalistic for his gentle face.  
he glows with youth, with _vivacity_. the sun sets a halo atop his dark hair, crowns him as the king of this world.  
it's like watching the birth of a star.  
scho imprints this image into his mind - tom, the fire of youth still burning brightly in his eyes, standing on the pier.   
then, he turns around.  
and he never thinks of tom again.

***

it takes some time for him to meet tom again, after that.  
the war is greedy and it swallows him up with the urgency of a thirsty man in a desert.  
but still, it takes scho some time to die. he lingers, for a while, in the way schofield handles his rifle just a bit too softly, talks a bit too quietly.   
schofield shoves him somewhere deep into his mind and moves on.  
there is time for misplaced kindness here.  
at the end of the day, there's nothing but another day gone. at the end of the day, he realizes he has nothing to live for anymore.  
so he doesn't.  
he eats and drinks and sleeps all the same, but a heavy harshness settles into the lines of his face and a certain vacancy inhabits his eyes.  
he goes through all the motions of surviving without wasting a single thought to the pressing question of if he is even still alive.  
not that it matters, anyway.   
because he does as he is told, and he survives the first offensive, and the shelling and the lack of rations and that is all anyone can ask of him.   
spring comes around eventually - it brings a pleasant change in nature, and schofield finds himself looking out over oceans of green whenever he gets the chance.   
he stays the same throughout it all none the less.  
it is on one of these warm spring days that tom blake returns to him - he stumbles out with all the new recruits and for a second, the perpetual smell of death lifts; makes place for the sweet odor of cherry blossoms.   
_you exist in spring_ , schofield thinks, _you exist within evergreen fields and cherry trees in bloom, you are a warm breeze on a sunny day-_  
 _you are a memory. why are you here?_  
the cherries rot and decay. spring ends.   
then tom looks at him - recognition blooms in his eyes -  
and schofield turns around and never looks back-   
"hey, scho!"   
flowers bloom. spring continues.  
"scho!"   
schofield turns his back and walks away, into the ocean of grass until it swallows him - he dies there, and the gentle breeze, a promise of a warm summer, carries him away.  
to the ocean, maybe, shimmering a brilliant blue, or home, wherever that may be.   
scho turns around.  
tom stands before him - _blue eyes, like a calm ocean_ \- and he's still glowing-   
"didn't you see me?"   
scho looks at him, truly looks, and answers.  
"no, i didn't."   
and finally, he breaths again.

*** 

_april 6th, 1917._

"i'm bloody starving, aren’t you? i thought we might get some decent grub out here - only reason i decided against the priesthood!", tom says with laughter in his eyes and a note of mirth in his voice and scho thinks that not even the war can change tom blake - he's a constant in this universe, an unchangeable truth scho can no longer deny.

he let's out a laugh because he _knows_ , and tom looks pleased with himself at the reaction.  
they continue into the trenches and scho thinks that maybe, they'll be okay.  
tom is here now, by the same twisted fate that led the world into war, and he hates it, hates knowing that tom is here, hates that he suffers the same hunger, experiences the same bone chilling cold.  
but scho knows he can protect him here, that as long as his heart beats on steadily, tom's will too.  
and nothing can change that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we all know what happens next.
> 
> or, 
> 
> maybe the world is a little kinder, the war a little shorter.  
> maybe april 6th, 1917 is just another day.


End file.
